


A Window of Silk and Paper

by CoatNTails



Category: MDZS, Mo Dao Zu Shi, 陈情令 | The Untamed (TV)
Genre: Chenqing - Freeform, Fluff, Grief, M/M, Night Hunt, Where the chaos is, Yiling Patriarch - Freeform, children love lan wangji, cultivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-14 17:09:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29545641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoatNTails/pseuds/CoatNTails
Summary: This was inspired by @bigmamag on tumblr, who said:"I just hurt myself thinking of the fact that pictures don’t exist in The Untamed and the only images Lan Wangji has of him is those shitty evil yiling patriarch caricatures that he just straight up burns whenever he sees out of anger. But what if on a night hunt like year 10 after Wei Wuxian’s death, Lan Wangji saves a very nice family’s daughter from a monster and they mention someone else helping their village and visiting a long time ago and the daughter shows him the accurate depiction of Wei Ying she drew back then of the nice cultivator who made her laugh through her injuries and Lan Wangji is frozen as Wei Ying smiles at him again, and he stares so longingly at it that the daughter insists that he keeps it and Lan Zhan does right next to the picture Wei Ying drew of him."
Relationships: Lan Wangji / Wei Wuxian
Comments: 57
Kudos: 326





	A Window of Silk and Paper

The blade flashed in the darkness.

They would swear later that it was a blue flame cutting through the night, and not simply the glow of the moon reflected on steel. It glimmered brightly enough that the blood beading on its surface looked more like ink. For a moment they stood frozen, too dazzled by the blade to move, until a blood-chilling roar stirred them to life again.

“A-Chen!,” they both cried. They reached out their arms, straining towards their little girl. They could see her pale, tear-blotched face in the moonlight. She huddled amongst the roots of a tree trembling and clutching her straw doll. “A-Chen!”

Yearning to go to them, she peeped out from the tree knoll in which she hid. Bravely, she reached out a little arm towards them, then a leg. But a ragged shriek from somewhere very close made her jerk her limbs back with a gasp. She squeezed her eyes tight shut, curling up small. With jerky movements, she smoothed her fingers over the bristly hair of her doll, and the familiar texture soothed her. She knew that you had to be scared before you could be brave. All of the heroes in her parents’ stories were very brave. What was the sense of wanting to be like them if you gave up when it counted? Though her heart fluttered like the wings of a netted bird, she clutched the straw man tightly, and plucked up her courage. All at once, she burst from her hiding place and ran, fleeing the safety of the trees, pelting towards the voices of her parents with all of her strength.

She was close enough to see the horror on their faces when she felt the tug of the thing’s hand on her clothes.

A luminous arc split the night, removing the hand that grasped her from its body. Another flash silenced the gurgling scream that followed. A-Chen heard a soft _thump_ of something falling into the grass. There was a moment of perfect stillness. The long, shimmering blade hung motionless in the air. Then the headless corpse before them teetered, lurched, and finally crashed to the ground at the family’s feet.

It’s work done, the miraculous sword returned to the hand of its master. He gave it a flick to shed the blood that still clung to its blade, then slid it gracefully back into its sheath.

A-Chen peeped out from behind her parents’ arms. The man was tall, dressed head to toe in spotless white, with a shining headband on his brow. Though he had just done battle with a gang of corpses, not a single drop of blood marred his robes. There was not even a speck of mud on his boots. She gaped at him until she was jostled by the hasty movements of her father. He shuffled forward, bowing so low that his hair brushed the grass. Her mother followed suit and bowed as well.

“Young Master! Thank you! Thank you! You saved my daughter’s life. Please! I am Ding Changpu, and my wife, Fan Shuang. We have nothing much to repay you, but please come back to our home with us. You can eat, and drink, and rest. Please, come and be our guest tonight, and for as long as you like.”

“No need,” the man said in a low voice.

A-Chen’s mother spoke up as well, “Please, Young Master! There are no inns for a very long way, and a gentleman as fine as you are should not sleep in the dust on the side of the road. Please, we could not bear it. We have room to spare, and I will cook you a delicious meal.”

Seeing how spotless the man was, A-Chen’s father added, “we promise not to trouble you, if it is your wish to be left undisturbed. Our children are well behaved, and won’t pester you. There is a clean straw mat upon the bed. Please come, Young Master. A bed of straw is better than wet grass.”

“And a hot meal better than wild fruit,” Fan Shuang agreed.

“And wine,” Ding Changpu said with a smile, “is best of all! Say you will come, Young Master? Please allow us to repay just a little of our debt to you.”

Something in the man’s rigid posture softened. Though he hesitated for another long moment, he finally nodded his head in acceptance.

“I, Lan Wangji of the Gusu-Lan sect, thank you for your hospitality.”

A sudden look of shock passed over the faces of both the man and his wife.

“Sir, then you are … the famous Hánguāng-jūn, of the twin Jades of Gusu?”

“Mnn,” he replied in assent.

The husband and wife shared a worried glance. But looking down at their daughter, they both silently came to the same decision. They returned his nod with deep salutations of their own. When everyone lifted their heads, the couple was smiling again, and gestured for him to follow them. Quick as a blink, A-Chen was gathered up in her father’s arms. They hurried towards the road. Lan Wangji followed, one arm held rigidly behind his back, effortlessly keeping pace. His movements were so graceful that he seemed to glide along after them without having to touch the earth. Or that’s how it seemed to little A-Chen, who stared at him in awe over her father’s shoulder.

***

“Father! Mother! It is so late, I was coming out after you! Has anything happened? …Who is that with you?”

A boy in his late teens stood on the threshold of a small house. He held a lantern and lifted it higher, revealing two other peeking faces at his shoulder and elbow. The children of varying ages all made room as their parents approached, welcoming them in, but their eyes stayed glued to the stranger in immaculate white robes.

“Your sister - and probably also your two parents - almost met a grisly fate tonight, but for the bravery and skill of this Young Master!” their father said loudly. “This is Hánguāng-jūn, the famed cultivator from Gusu, and he is our honored guest.”

The children, apart from A-Chen, all looked at each other in amazement, hardly believing their ears. A-Chen did not move her eyes away from the man who had saved her.

“You will not bother him, or pester him with questions!” Their father continued. “A-Li, help your mother with dinner. My sons, bring in wood for the hearth and tidy the bedroom — clean and fresh as a newly opened bud, do you understand? Remove that certain untidiness from the wall, will you? Ahem. Good! Please, young master, be seated and rest. Our home is yours tonight, so please be comfortable. Here, A-Chen…”

He released his little daughter from the protective circle of his arms, lowering her gently to the floor. “Go to your sister and mother now, but be a good girl and do not get in their way, alright?”

A-Chen nodded, sparing her father a glance to let him know that she heard. But even as she moved toward the hearth to obey, her eyes darted back to the man in white, watching him as she went.

“Be comfortable, Young Master,” her father urged again. “I will return in a moment with clean water.”

Lan Wangji lowered his eyes in acknowledgment.

Once Ding Changpu had gone, he swept his gaze over his surroundings. The house was poor, the home of a farmer and his family. Though they had told him that they had room to spare, he could see with a glance that it was not truly so. There was one communal bedroom, which the youngest boy was trying to make presentable to their courtly guest, and a modest space to gather for meals. The hearth, tucked in the corner, was a flurry of motion as the mother and her eldest daughter prepared food, murmuring softly to each other so they would not disturb him with their chatter. He glanced briefly at their backs as he looked about the room, his eyes catching for a moment on an avid face peeking out from their skirts — It was A-Chen, still staring at him unblinkingly as she held a basket of roots for her mother.

Pretending that he did not see her, he turned and moved towards the opposite wall. Though most objects in the house were quite humble, and few of them decorative, there was an elegant painted fan and several painted scrolls hung up on the walls. Taking the opportunity to look closely, he could see that the artist, whoever they were, was very skilled. With the stroke of a brush, ink had become sharp blades of grass, and the glistening skin of a frog, and even the soft wisps of cloud that flowed around a mountain.

Lan Wangji looked long in appreciation before turning away, prepared at last to sit down, but paused when he saw A-Chen kneeling close by. Unashamedly, she continued to stare while her fingers plucked at the clothes of her straw doll. Determinedly ignoring her stare, he moved to the table in the center of the room, swept his robes aside, and sat.

A-Chen stared at him.

Lan Wangji stared straight ahead.

“ … Are you an Immortal?” she finally asked.

The question made him blink. Unable to ignore her any longer, he looked at her, and replied, “No.”

“Are you a Cultivator, then?”

He nodded with the barest tilt of his head.

“Do you know many other very great Cultivators?”

His lips thinned slightly, and his eyes flickered once towards the hearth where the child’s mother stood. Seeing she was too busy to notice that her youngest was pestering him, he let out his breath with a sigh, and nodded again.

“Do you know _him_?”

Leaning forward, she thrust her straw doll across the table towards him. Lan Wangji, not expecting to be accosted with a doll, was too surprised to do anything but look. It was clothed crudely in a black scrap of cloth, with sinew tied around its waist for a belt. Bristly black hair — collected perhaps from a donkey or a horse — sprung from the top of its head in an unruly manner, tamed only slightly by the red string that held half of it in a pony tail. There was a twig attached to it’s straw arm, loosely bound there with a bit of dried grass.

Though the man looked, he did not answer her, and A-Chen grew impatient. She leaned closer, half climbing onto the table in order to push the doll towards him so he could get a better look. Her movements, clumsy and childish, jostled the doll, and shook the twig it held loose from its binding. With an “Ah!” of dismay, she watched it plink against the table and bounce right onto the cultivator’s spotless white robe.

“Sit properly,” he commanded in a voice deep and firm.

Reluctantly, she obeyed. As she shuffled back onto her knees, he pulled back his sleeve, and very carefully plucked the twig from his robes.

“His sword,” he said, reaching across the table to return the twig to A-Chen.

She reached up to take it from him, but corrected him at once. “It isn’t a sword!” she said indignantly. “It is his flute! It is Chenqing!”

The whole time A-Chen had watched him, the man’s face had been cold and serene, like the face of a stone buddha. But suddenly it changed.

“Chenqing…?” he repeated softly.

He looked again at the doll, lips parted in amazement. A-Chen, watching him, smiled brightly.

“You _do_ know him,” she said with satisfaction.

“Mèimei!”

The oldest boy had just returned, wood for the hearth piled in his arms. “Mèimei,” he scolded again, “leave our guest alone. You heard what Father said. Young Master, please excuse my little sister. She is very young, and does not always listen. I hope she has not troubled you.”

“No trouble,” the cultivator murmured, composing himself again.

The boy hurriedly deposited his wood, leaving it to his mother and sister to make the fire, and moved to scoop up A-Chen so she would not continue to be a pest. “But Yan-Gēge,” she protested in a loud whisper, “he knows him! He knows Wei Wuxian!”

These words fell like a stone into a still pond, casting ripples all around it. Once again the man’s impassive demeanor changed, his eyes becoming bright and attentive as he looked towards A-Chen. The boy also looked at her, startled, then shot a surprised glance at the white-robed cultivator. For a moment, their eyes met. The stranger’s eyes were light in color, almost amber when the lamplight hit them, startling in their beauty. But they burned with such an intense look that the boy could not bear the gaze for long, and looked away. The man rose to his feet in one fluid movement.

“Excuse me,” he said, “But the young lady mentioned Wei Wuxian … ” This time the ripples disturbed the entire house, making A-Chen’s mother and sister look up from the hearth, and her brother peek out of the bedroom. “… I wonder if you could tell me why.”

A frightened silence fell over the family. Each of them glanced sidelong at the others, unsure what to say. All except A-Chen, who answered the man directly and without fear.

“Wei Wuxian is a great hero,” she told him. “He saved my brother from the dead things. He saved many people in our village. Just the same as when you saved me tonight. Except that he did not cut them up with a sword. Instead, he played for them on his fl- ”

“A-Chen!” her brother snapped, grabbing her hand “Be quiet!” She peered up at her brother in confusion, not sure why he would shush her. Only then did she notice the pall that had fallen over the rest of her family, and realize she’d said something wrong.

“But, he saved you,” she mumbled, tears of confusion springing into her eyes.

Something passed over the cultivator’s face, causing his graceful brow to furrow. He took a step closer, as though to go to the girl, but was stopped by a fearful cry from the door.

“Young Master!”

Ding Changpu stood on the threshold, a basin of water clutched in his trembling hands.

“Young Master, please forgive the thoughtless words of my young daughter, and do not bear any hatred towards her or my family. We do not mean to cause any trouble, or stir up any resentment with the names of evil-doers.”

Lan Wangji turned to address him. “Wei Wuxian came to this village?”

A-Chen’s father bowed his head and answered quickly, “Yes, Young Master.”

“When?”

The sudden urgency in his voice made Ding Changpu glance up. Lan Wangji’s gaze was so intense that it frightened him, and he lowered his own eyes once more. Water sloshed over the rim of the basin as he bowed apologetically. “I’m very sorry Young Master,” he said, “but if the Yiling Patriarch has returned somehow, and you are hunting him, you will not find him here. It was many years ago. A-Gen there, my eldest boy, was only seven or eight years old. It must have been 10 years ago, at least. And we did not see him ever again.”

There was a moment of silence. Lan Wangji bowed his head. Afraid that his silence was born of anger, Ding Changpu spoke up again. “Please do not blame us, or anyone in our village, for giving an evil man shelter for a few days. The corpses that plagued our village had already killed several people, and were spreading a terrible sickness to others. To us, he did not seem evil. My own son was among the ones he saved from corpse poisoning! It wasn’t until later that we heard about what happened at Qiongqi path, and then at Nightless City … ”

The farmer shuffled his feet in distress, thinking what a horrible mistake he may have made, and how his whole family may yet pay for it. His arms trembled with the effort of maintaining the bow while holding the water basin, but he dared not raise his head.

“We do not get much news here in this mountain village, but… But we have heard of you, young master, of course. Who has not heard of the great Hánguāng-jūn, younger of the twin Jades, known always for ‘being where the chaos is!’ That reputation was proved tonight, and we will remember it always. It is said that you were deceived, and betrayed, in the most vile way. It is said that you are his bitterest enemy. Please, forgive us for letting our daughter grow up thinking well of your enemy. After tonight we will correct her, we will — ah!”

He gasped at the touch of firm hands on his arms. Looking up at last, he saw Lan Wangji standing before him, urging him up from his bow. The intensity that had burned in his eyes had calmed, and his face now bore a look of deep sadness.

“Sir,” he said. “There is no need to apologize. Please be at ease. …Not all things that one hears are true.”

He took the water basin from the man’s hands, and moved to the hearth to pour some into the waiting pot. Seeing this famous cultivator suddenly doing their chores, the children all exchanged looks of shock. Then, as he was pouring out another measure of water into a washing bowl, Lan Wangji spoke again.

“Please … could you tell me more of his visit to your village?”

***

The table was small, and the family already large. Even without their guest in attendance, their knees would bump. Lan Wangji knelt upon the straw mat, taking up as little space as possible and using all of his courtly manners to pretend that he was not terribly uncomfortable. His host family, however, sprawled crosslegged on their mats and oozed carelessly into each other’s space. Thankfully, they did all seem to take care not to jostle their stately guest too much, keeping in mind that his meals were probably not conducted in such humble surroundings. All, that is, except A-Chen, who insisted on sitting right beside him, and crept closer by the moment. It was not too long before leaning away from a bump from A-Gen caused him to bump little A-Chen instead, which she took as an invitation to be close. Looking down, he saw that his knee had become a tall mountain for the straw-man Wei Wuxian to climb.

“Ah!” her mother cried, “A-Chen! Do not pester Hánguāng-jūn like that! He does not want to play with your toys!”

“It’s fine,” Lan Wangji assured her softly.

Feeling that a famous cultivator’s word must surely outrank the command of her mother, A-Chen happily guided Wei Wuxian further up the slope of the snowy peak. There, he paused to celebrate by playing his flute and dancing. Lan Wangji ignored this wanton display of frivolity, showing his disdain for such behavior by reaching for his teacup — though he did take care to gather his sleeve first so that it did not knock Wei Wuxian from the mountain.

Bowls were passed around, shared by all in attendance. The variety and amount of food on the table surprised Lan Wangji. They did not mention it, but looking at the number of dishes, he was sure that they had thrown him a feast that they could not truly afford. Apart from a small helping of rice, there was also stir fried leeks with garlic and tofu, peanuts and sweet melon, cucumbers stirred in rice vinegar, and millet porridge with stewed peaches that filled the room with a syrupy fragrance.

He wanted to shake his head at the extravagance. He wanted to reprimand them for wasting reserves that they could sell or store for winter when they were obviously so poor. But the patter of straw feet atop his leg reminded him of someone else, and how he might have received such a meal … So instead, Lan Wangji accepted every bowl offered to him and took a little of each dish to show his appreciation for their efforts. Ding Changpu and Fan Shuang smiled at one another between bites of tofu.

“When Wei Wuxian appeared here, we had long been troubled by Highway men,” Ding Changpu recalled as he reached for a second helping of melon. “They had camped the mountain pass road for several years. It caused a lot of trouble for our village, since that is the only road through the western mountains, and to go around takes weeks longer. Travelers, traders, visitors to and from the villages in the west - they all knew that to take the mountain pass road meant to risk death. For these Highwaymen did not only rob people of their silver, they often robbed them of their lives!”

Lan Wangji listened politely, but as talking during meal time was forbidden in his sect, he did not answer.

“People dared not travel alone. And even in groups, one or two would usually fall prey to these animals, never to be seen again. None of us could be sure what happened to the people they took, until one night it became clear. They had been murdered by the highway men, and their unburied corpses grew restless. Our missing brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, friends and tradesmen — they returned to us one night, shambling down the mountain pass. But they were no longer the living people we loved! They were dead, mindless. Unnatural horrors. Some with limbs missing, some with their guts trailing behind them, some already shriveled to little more than skeletons! They did not know us. All they knew was pain, and hunger. Our own neighbor … the poor man! He recognized his brother in the hoard. Overcome by emotion, he tried to go to him. And what do you think happened then — he was torn to bits! By the corpse of his own brother!”

A-Gen, the oldest boy, nodded solemnly, while his younger brother merely listened. A-Chen glanced between her own two bothers and shuddered. Fear swept over her. But when she looked up at the regal man beside her, she was comforted. She knew, without any doubt, that this man could protect her and her family from an entire army of dead things.

Lan Wangji blinked and looked down to see that A-Chen had wriggled up to take Wei Wuxian’s place upon his knee. His lips parted in surprise. She leaned close against him, her fingers curling into his robes, dotting them with the residue of leeks and melons. Seeing this, horror bloomed over her mother’s face. She was just preparing to get up and collect her daughter when Lan Wangji himself moved. He swept his long sleeved arm around the child, holding her steady so she would not slip.

“Please continue,” he said to Ding Changpu.

“For three days, we shuttered ourselves up in our houses, too afraid to go outside. There were moments when we thought to work up our courage, but then the screams of those who dared to venture out would convince us again to stay put. On the third day, we had no choice. With two young ones and a baby, we needed water and grain! I crept out to get some. I nearly made it back to the door when they noticed me. I will never forget the horrible blankness of their eyes, or the sounds they made - just the same as the ones you slew tonight, Young Master! They were horrible. And I was sure that my moment had come. When suddenly, there was a shout from the door. There was little A-Gen, roaring at them like a soldier!”

A-Gen shifted uncomfortably. His back went straight as if he thought he should be proud, but his eyes stayed on his food, avoiding the gazes of others.

“He rushed from the house, shouting at the corpses to leave his father alone. And no amount of scolding could change his mind. They turned, all three, and went after him instead. Sure enough, I dropped the water and millet, picking up the first thing I could find at hand — a hoe. But Young Master, you must be able to guess at how well that served me — what can a hoe do against the furious dead! I can break rocks, till a field, I can brawl with any man in this village! But my strength was nothing to theirs. Though I battered at them, they swatted my hoe away like it was nothing more than an irritating blade of grass. And that, Young Master, was the very moment that we heard music.”

Lan Wangji set down his chopsticks. Giving Ding Changpu all of his attention, he prompted him, “Go on.”

“It was a flute, and beautifully played. Though the melody sounded wild to our unrefined ears. The stranger played, and chills ran down my body, head to toe, like I had been transported to some inhospitable place, cold and desolate and dark. I wanted to run. But the corpses - they all stopped. Whatever they were doing, they suddenly ignored it, and moved instead to follow the sound of the flute. They dropped my boy, and I grabbed him, rushing inside with him and the water and millet. And we did not dare to go out again! A-Gen had been bitten and scratched, and dead blood had gotten into his wounds.”

At this point in the story, A-Gen pulled up his sleeves to reveal his forearms. Both arms bore grisly scars, some the crescent shaped indents of teeth, others long white-edged furrows where finger nails had raked his skin.

“While Fan Shuang and I tried to tend him, the flute grew distant, then stopped. No noise at all came from outside for a long while. But then we heard a voice. ’Come out at once, any of you who are able, and help me dig graves!’ It shouted. ‘Come out and dig! We must lay these people to rest!

“Naturally, I went out to help. Almost everyone who could did, and those who did not have been branded as cowards from that day to this. The man we met was tall — about as tall as you are, Young Master — and slender as a reed, dressed head to toe in black, and in one had he brandished a black lacquered bamboo flute. He led us to a field, and there were the corpses, peacefully laid out in orderly rows, each bearing talismans at their heads, chests and bellies, their arms and legs, to keep them calm. He told us where to dig, and how deep to dig. And though we did not have enough coffins or funerary objects, every household pitched in to provide straw mats and sheets to wrap them in. It took all day. And when at last every corpse was laid to rest, we burned paper money and incense, and prayed for them to be at peace.

“With that work done, the man went about the village, treating those who had fallen ill with the corpse poison sickness. He carried packets of medicine, and applied them freely, curing all that he could, including little A-Gen. Though he was too sick for our own cures to help, Wei Wuxian’s medicine worked at once. When I asked how he had learned the art of curing such a wicked poison, he said that he had a doctor friend so skilled that she could heal anyone, and she had made the packets for him. He said that he did not travel without it, and lucky for all of us that that was so!”

Fan Shuang spoke up, “Isolated as we are, without much contact with skilled doctors, we have had to make our own solutions for such things - here in the mountains, we make a special congee that can cure mild corpse sickness. It is simple, and will not help those who have a very bad case, or have had it long. Nevertheless, we told him about it, and he was so interested that he asked us to make some. I cooked a pot of congee, and with it we treated a few of the last sick people, who’s cases had been so mild that they were left to be treated until last. He saw that it worked, and it delighted him!”

“We were so grateful for his help,” Ding Changpu went on, “that we invited him to stay and rest here in the village. He happily agreed. After 3 days and nights of huddling inside, you can imagine that we were eager to celebrate! Tables were brought out into the center of town. Lanterns were lit. Every household provided food and drink.”

“It was like a festival,” A-Gen remembered fondly.

“It was,” Ding Changpu agreed, “and none ate or drank or laughed more than that Wei Wuxian!”

The family laughed at the happy memory, while Lan Wangji bowed his head. His eyes unfocused, looking inward, trying to remember the shape of Wei Wuxian’s face when he laughed. So many years had passed … he could not understand how treasured things could be forgotten. Even if a century passed, some things should stay burned in one’s mind forever. But it was not so. His eyes… Those he could still see. His eyes when he smiled would close to slits, his smile so big that there was no room for anything else.

Ding Changpu noticed that the cultivator had become thoughtful, and quieted down. Uncertain of his feelings, he continued in a softer voice, “He was certainly not a member of your sect, Young Master. You have not touched a drop of wine, but he could not get enough! I’m afraid he overdid it that night. So overjoyed was I to have little A-Gen safe and well, and to see our village rescued, that I volunteered to house the stranger. So I carried him back here, and he stayed with us … for several days. He seemed reluctant to leave. At dinners, he sat just where you are sitting, Young Master.”

Lan Wangji blinked and focused again on the present place and time. Suddenly, the cramped table seemed much more precious.

“He played us many melodies on his flute, and told us many frightening stories about his travels. We fed him and listened and told him our own country tales. Though they were dull compared to his, he listened to them all, as attentive as a boy of five. He gave us talismans and showed us how to use them in case we encountered more trouble. During the days he helped us repair the village. He even helped me to catch up with my planting in the field. In the evenings, he played with little A-Gen, and rocked A-Niu and A-Li to sleep like they were his own babes. Young Master, for a short span of days, it was like he had been born to this village … We know that the world does not think fondly of him now, and perhaps his way with the flute … the way he could command the dead so easily … perhaps his ways truly were wicked. But to us, Young Master, to all the people of this village, he was only a good man.”

Lan Wangji’s vision clouded. He looked away, dropping his gaze to the table, concentrating very hard on not allowing any excess moisture to fall from his eyes.

“ … He was a good man,” Lan Wangji agreed softly.

The family fell silent. Even the children dared not stir. Ding Changpu and his wife exchanged a look of wonder. Then, Fan Shuang plucked up enough courage to speak.

“… Young Master,” she offered, “while he was here, he agreed to let me paint his portrait. We still have it, if you would like to see …?”

The cultivator’s eyes lifted at once, bright and full of longing.

“Yes,” he said. “I would like to.”

***

A-Chen had fallen asleep on the cultivator’s lap. With help from her mother, she was gently extracted, and Lan Wangji was able to get up. Fan Shuang moved towards the bedroom. But the youngest boy, A-Niu, dashed ahead of her.

“I put it away, when I was cleaning,” he explained, retrieving the painting from its secret hiding place. Lan Wangji’s chest throbbed with another pang of sadness, realizing that they must have hidden it out of fear of his own anger.

The table was quickly cleared and wiped down to make a space. Then the scroll was brought out and unrolled.

“Fan Shuang is the daughter of an artist. I believe that she was born with a brush in her hand, with how beautiful her work is. She paints portraits for travelers who pass through, and sells painted fans and scrolls to traders. We make a little extra money that way, though most of it goes back to buying silk and ink and paper. Still, you can see with just a glance how good she is, can you not? She brings much beauty into the world, my lovely Fan Shuang!” The proud husband smiled, his eyes twinkling, and emphasized this statement with a loving pat on his children’s heads, telling them with a touch that he included them in Fan Shuang’s beautiful works. Lan Wangji did not notice this touching moment. Nor did hear much of what the farmer said. His attention was focused completely on the scroll.

Through a window of a paper and silk, he saw Wei Wuxian smiling at him once more.

He lounged, body loose, leaning back against the front steps of the house. His hands fiddled with Chenqing, perhaps about to play, or perhaps just finished playing, the high notes of the flute still hanging in the air. Or perhaps just twirling it the way he used to do when he was bored. His hair was tied with a ribbon of vermillion ink, but two soft strands were left loose in front. They framed his face… a face that smiled carelessly, showing too many teeth. A smile so rich and so big that it almost pinched his eyes shut. Almost. He still peeked out at Lan Wangji through those laughing eyes, looking to be sure that his smile was working, that his worry or anger or disapproval was disarmed by that reckless display of joy.

So detailed were the strokes of the brush that Lan Wangji recognized the pattern of his robes, could feel the texture of them under his fingertips. He remembered the sharp smell of liquor and the mellow scent of wet earth and wild grass. Distantly, he could hear the sound of his birth name tumbling from those lips.

_… Lan Zhan…_

A droplet of water struck the paper.

Shaken from his thoughts, Lan Wangji drew in a shuddering breath. He reached out to blot the paper with his sleeve before the tear drop caused the ink to bleed.

“Please forgive my carelessness, Madam Fan,” he said in a hoarse voice, striking the offending wetness from his face with his other hand so no more would fall. “I am deeply sorry to have damaged it, I — ”

Fan Shuang stopped him with a gentle hand on his wrist.

“Young Master. Please, don’t worry. There is no damage. I think… perhaps, the painting was not finished until now. … Come. I will hang it up again, and you can examine it at your leisure. It is time for all of us to rest, anyway. Children, get yourselves ready for sleep.”

“But, perhaps,” her husband said, “a jar of wine, to soften the memories… ”

“Lǎogōng,” she said firmly, giving him a serious look. “Wine is for another day. Now it’s time for _rest._ ” After a few pointed glances, Ding Changpu reluctantly agreed.

Lan Wangji stepped back, and allowed the family to bustle around him. The scroll was taken away, the dishes were washed, and the table was moved to make way for sleeping mats. With a gentle hand at his elbow, he was led to the family’s bedroom and given a candle. By its light, he saw the scroll hung on the wall beside the bed. They closed the door, and left him to his thoughts.

He gazed at the scroll long after the family’s soft chatter subsided. He felt the appointed hour for sleep come, felt his body yearn for rest, but still he looked. Calloused fingertips traced the lines of a face painted on paper. At last, the candle guttered and died, plunging the room into darkness. Only then did Lan Wangji close his eyes.

***

The guqin string quivered. The last low note of Inquiry hung in the chill air. Lan Wangji removed his hands from the strings. Though he had not gone to bed at the appointed time, he had risen before the sun, and sat in his host family’s yard with the instrument on his lap. He pulled in one measured breath after another, refusing to allow himself to anticipate an answer.

_Here,_ came a twang on the string.

His heart leapt painfully in his chest. But he forced his hands to be still as he reached again for the strings.

_What is your name?_

He was answered with two soft notes, _Ding Lifen._

Despite all his efforts to stay composed, his fingers clenched. He forced them open again, and played another question.

_Are there other spirits here with you?_

_Yes._

_Is there a spirit here named Wei Wuxian?_

_No._

Lan Wangji’s breath left him in a soft gust. Disappointment washed painfully through his body, settling in his limbs, making them heavy. After a few moments, the guqin strings rang again on their own.

_Permission to speak?_

Light glittered on his lashes, the first rays of the sun striking through the trees and dappling the yard. He blinked at the light in his eyes. For a long, petulant moment, he considered refusing. It was not the spirit he wanted. But he had called it there. Refusal would be unjust.

_Speak._

The strings quivered and rang, plucking themselves as the spirit spoke. _Many spirits linger in the southern field. It is possible the one you seek is there. Permission to make a request?_

_Ask._

_Please,_ the spirit said, _tell my son, Ding Changpu, that his mother is proud. Tell my daughter in law, Fan Shuang, that she is a perfect wife. Tell my grandchildren that they are beautiful._

Lan Wangji’s fingers slid over the strings in answer, _It will be done. Be at peace._

The chickens had emerged with the warmth and light of morning, and began to scuttle around him, searching for stray seeds and insects. He carefully wrapped the guqin in it’s cloth, and put it away in his Qiankun pouch. Then he rose to his feet. Turning back towards the house, he saw a small face peering at him. The guqin had woken A-Chen, and she watched him from the steps of the house.

“You play very well,” A-Chen said.

Lan Wangji blinked, unsure how to take such a compliment from a child, and one who had probably never heard a guqin played before that moment.

“… Thank you.”

“Were you talking, with the music, to the dead people? The way that Wei Wuxian talks with his flute?”

He blinked again. The comparison made him deeply uncomfortable. But after all… it wasn’t very different, was it…

“… Yes.”

“What did they say?” A-Chen asked.

Lan Wangji approached the house, coming closer to answer, “Your grandmother says she thinks that you are very beautiful.”

A-Chen smiled brightly. Scrambling up from the steps, she ran back into the house to wake her parents and brothers and sister to tell them about this wondrous revelation.

Lan Wangji did not linger at the farmer’s house. With everyone awake, he fulfilled the spirits request, passing on her messages to the members of her family. He tried to take his leave then, but they pressed him to have a meal before he set off, and so he stayed long enough to eat a breakfast of leftovers. After rising from the table for the last time, the cultivator drifted back into the bedroom to lay a few hunks of silver on the bed, to compensate them for their hospitality. When he turned to leave, his eyes were drawn to the wall, wanting to glance just once more at Wei Wuxian’s face. But the scroll was gone. He stumbled. And then stood, looking at the blank wall. For a moment, he felt as lost as he had many years before, when a certain person had suddenly disappeared.

“It’s here, Young Master,” said a gentle voice. He turned to see Fan Shuang hesitating in the doorway, with A-Chen clinging to her leg. She carried a small bundle in her hands, and held it out to him. “I’ve wrapped it for your journey. We want you to have it. We’ve enjoyed the remembrance of his smiling face, but the painting belongs with you. Please take it.”

He stared at the bundle, his lips parted in shock. “… I have nothing equal to its value to give you,” he said.

“Young Master,” she chided, placing a hand on A-Chen’s head. “You saved our daughter’s life. Probably ours as well. Some food and a night’s rest do not repay such a kindness. Besides, you are meant to have it. Perhaps I painted it on that day for you, and simply did not know it. Take it.”

He reached out a trembling hand to receive it and held it carefully.

“Thank you.”

With the scroll clasped in his hands, he bowed deeply to Fan Shuang. She flushed in embarrassment, sure that it wasn’t proper for someone of such high rank to show such respect to a farmer’s wife. But to deny his gratitude also seemed disrespectful. She took a step back, and bowed deeply in return. A-Chen, the straw doll clasped in her hands, imitated her.

The family saw him out, thrusting bundles of steamed buns and flat cakes into his hands as he left, waving and calling out their last thanks, and demanding that he travel safely. He had gone out the gate and a short ways down the road when a shrill call of his name stopped him.

“Hánguāng-jūn! Hánguāng-jūn!”

He turned and saw little A-Chen pelting down the road after him, holding her doll before her.

“Hánguāng-jūn,” she said, panting when she finally reached him. “If the picture belongs with you, then does Wei Wuxian belong with you also?” She pulled the straw doll back, touching his clothes and his twig flute with a pudgy finger, clearly reluctant to give him up. But then she thrust the doll towards Lan Wangji again. “You can take him with you. You can keep him safe, like you kept me safe. Take him home to Gusu.”

Lan Wangji let out his breath. For a moment he could not move. Then, slowly, he crouched before A-Chen, cupping his hands around hers.

“He should stay here with you,” he said. His deep voice reminded her of the sound made by the lowest guqin string. “But you must protect him. From dogs, especially. Promise to hide him from any dogs.”

“I promise,” A-Chen said solemnly.

“Good.”

With a soft brush of his fingers over her hair, Lan Wangji rose. He stood long enough to watch her run back to the gate, the straw doll clutched tight against her chest. Then he turned, and made his way out of the village.

***

Lan Wangji walked south, stopping in the village to buy some incense. Then he made his way to the field where the angry corpses had been buried so many years ago. He did not truly harbor any hope, but he was unwilling to let even the barest possibility go without trying. So he sat at the edge of the field, laid his guqin upon his lap, and played the notes of Inquiry.

Wei Wuxian was not among the spirits who gathered around his guqin. Nor did any of them know where he might be. So he wished them peace, and let them rest again. Though he had not known them in life, he burned the incense he had bought for them, and prostrated himself in prayer. Finally, he mounted his sword and returned to Gusu.

His brother, hearing news of Lan Wangji’s unexpected return, sought him at the Jingshi. He found him there, back turned to the door, busily hanging a scroll upon the wall near the bed.

“It is good to see you safely returned,” Lan Xichen said with a soft smile. “I thought you planned to travel until winter. What brought you home?”

“Delivering something precious,” Lan Wangji answered.

Lan Xichen looked at him questioningly, but his younger brother offered no further explanation.

“Excuse me, Xiongzhang” Lan Wangji said with a bow, “I must go and greet our Uncle. Will you accompany me?”

“Of course,” Lan Xichen replied.

Lan Wangji swept out of the Jingshi. Before moving to follow, Lan Xichen glanced at the wall where his brother had been when he’d entered. An old portrait of Lan Wangji himself had hung there for more than twelve years. It was unlike his brother to be vain, but when asked, Lan Wangji had never offered any reason for having it besides his appreciation of the skill with which it had been rendered. Now, Lan Xichen saw that it had a companion. A new scroll was hung beside it, bearing a very different subject. It was unmistakably a portrait of Wei Wuxian, painted so well that it seemed like he might get up from where he lounged and step into the room.

Lan Xichen stared at the new decoration for a long while, considering how its appearance made him feel. Then his eyes drifted back to the portrait of Lan Wangji. He took in the two paintings together, hung there side by side, and smiled.

He caught up with Lan Wangji a few minutes later, walking along quietly beside him.

“… The new scroll is very skillfully painted,” he finally said.

Lan Wangji glanced at him sidelong, agreeing with a soft, “mnn.”

His brother continued in a gentle tone, “I think your choice of where to hang it is very pleasing. It helps to give the room a sense of peace.”

Lan Wangji closed his eyes, pulling in a deep breath and letting it out slowly.

“… Mnn.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you @bigmamag for planting this thought in my head. It will flourish there in my headcanon. 
> 
> I am new to the Untamed, new to Chinese culture, very new to all the ways of naming and addressing people... I've used the internet, the MDZS novel, and the Untamed show to try and help me navigate these hurdles. Sorry if I made too many silly mistakes.
> 
> I love comments. 
> 
> my blog is @scentofsandalwood on tumblr


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